Masks
by trunks111
Summary: Gaara. Shonen-ai. We all wear masks. Why though? Is our reason good enough? When do we shed them? When did we first don them? Newly accepted University student. Big change. Will his mask finally slip for good?
1. First Donned

It began when he was just a boy. Only four or five, maybe he was even as old as six. It didn't matter his exact age. But he had been that young when he firsst donned his mask. His mask of indifference. Coldness. Emotionless. He had no friends. The others were afraid of him. He had more enemies than he could be bothered to count. Most..., were unaware of why they hated the pale skinned, red haired boy. He was, afterall, just a boy back then. Largely unremarkable. Aside from his lack of friends and, later, apparent indifference. He used to smile. To try. To want.  
It all changed one day though. When the one person who had ever shown him kindness betrayed him. It was on that night, he first donned his mask. Never again has he cried, smiled, or cared about anything.

Years have passed. He has the kanji for love tattooed upon his forehead, his hair does not cover it. His eyes are lined in black. His clothing largely consists of black, occasionally red, gray, or even white. Boots of black adorn his feet, upon his right wrist a two rowed black leather studded wristband is clasped. He is tall and slender, so of course, the common bully has attempted to heckle him. It did not end well. A roundhouse kick of steel-toed boot to the bully's face, ended all future disputes before they even began.  
Perhaps most unnerving, is the way his seafoam green eyes are completely blank, his face devoid of any and all emotions.

Even his siblings, though they would never tell the teen, were slightly afraid of him.  
Largely though, they keep out of his life and way.  
Despite his disdain for people and anything social..., he decided to attend University. To study art.

His art..., is dark and haunting. He never uses color. Black and white only. Images, within images. Volumes spoken in a mere expression upon a drawn person's face. Everything he cannot or will not say? His mind laid bare?  
How many though, grasp what they're gazing upon?

As is required of all freshmen, he is to live on campus, much to his disdain, he also is to share a room. Perhaps his reputation will precede him and the fool will request a transfer. A smirk tugs at his lips but he represses it, keeping his face smooth and blank.  
Not that it matters. He will do as is necessary for his studies. Even if it means having to share a room with another person.

He understands that people hate and fear that which they do not understand. And so, he is feared and hated. It doesn't bother him. He accepts that they are weak, feeble minded fools.  
He moves in tomorrow. The earliest date. He is already packed, box of clothes, a bag full of his art supplies. Nothing left to do, but wait.

The next day arrived at last.  
He woke early and dressed in black baggy cargo pants and a plain black t-shirt.  
After eating a breakfast of cereal, he drove himself to the University campus. After an uncomfortable for the secretary, number of minutes, Gaara was given his room key.  
The walls were a forest green, the furniture plain light brown wood. He fitted his dark red sheets to his bed and then set about organizing his clothes in half the closet and dresser. With those necessary things complete, the red head laid back upon his new bed. Pondering his new life as a university student.  
It would be a large change. People every day. Class work. Living in a dormitory.

Alone, his mask had slipped. He wore a thoughtful expression. His eyes filled with a sort of wonder only possible for those who could see beyond the world in which they live. He was even beginning to smile some, at the thought of once more being in an art class. Perhaps even finding an artist who's art was similar in some ways to his own. Discussing art, it made him feel alive. It made him want to shed his mask forever.  
He could not though. Would not. His mask was a part of him. An integral part. He couldn't remove it permanently. It would always slide back on. Back into place. No one really knew him. No one understood him. And they never would.

He wears a mask to protect himself. To protect others from him. To protect his sanity.


	2. Roommate

They were to have a selection of work for the art professor to go over for the first day. The real work wouldn't begin until the third or fourth class. And so, with naught else to occupy his mind, he has moved to his art. His back to the door, leaning heavily on one arm as he lightly sketches.

The pencil moves as if on it's own.

His face is blank save for the intensity of his gaze. Seeing the paper before him but not really.

The pencil glides across the page.

Slowly, the image becomes apparent. It's a young boy upon a busy street. He is gazing upward at the viewer, his face a mix of emotions, his eyes so lightly shaded they seem to be almost accusing, yet the sadness in the gentle tilt of his head, the way his lips are just slightly parted in a pout. His feet are planted shoulder width apart, his body facing the cars upon the street. His arms dangle at his sides, one hand clutching a paper bag.

His pants are ripped and torn, his shirt much too large for his scrawny frame, holes about the hem. He is barefoot. His hair is a wild mess, strewn about his head. There are people walking in his direction from up and down the street, one man is about to pass him, wearing a hat and coat, talking into his cell phone. Oblivious to the boy and his plight.

All the shops along the street are the type owned by families, just small businesses. Few cars line the street sides.  
Gaara spends some time lightly shading the cars and shops, largely leaving the boy alone, stark white amidst the gray and black of the people. Invisible yet obvious.

He leans away from the desk. Lightly touching the screen of his phone, revealing the time to be four hours since he began. He signed his work in the bottom corner very small in black before standing and stretching to his full height. Retrieving his wristband from the nightstand, he clasped it on before leaving the room. His mask in place, the tall red head walked to the cafeteria. Few students were about, none paying him any attention.

After he finished his meal, he returned to his room.

"Woah, your roommate is some kinda weird artist guy!"

His lip twitched in annoyance. He heard the loud voice coming from the inside of his room. His roommate had arrived.

Mask in place once more, he opened the door soundlessly, and slipped into the room.  
One male stood over his drawing and another was laying on the other bed, that one now having light gray sheets.

"What makes you say that?"

"You had to have seen the drawing!" the loud one said turning to his friend, still oblivious to Gaara's presence.

"Yeah and?"

"It's fucking creepy man!"

"You think running out of chips is something to be afraid of," the one on the bed said before rolling on to his side so his back was to his friend.

"It is!"

"Whatever."

"Hmph, since you're going to nap, I'll go find my room on my own."

Soft snores were the only response he got.  
He turned around, jumping and flinching when he saw Gaara just standing there, about ten feet away.

"H-hello, I-I guess you're Shikamaru's roommate then?"

Gaara only slightly inclined his head in acknowledgement, crossing the room to his bed, not sitting just standing by it. The path to the door clear.

"Uh well I'd love to stay and uh chat, but I've got to go find my room," and with that he all but ran from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

With the loud one gone, Gaara looked over his roommate. He was of average height, black hair tied up in a ponytail that looked rather like a fruit, one discernable earring. Black jeans and a long sleeved dark green shirt. Slim build.  
And if the conversation was anything to go by..., lazy. Very lazy. And the fact that he had fallen asleep in a matter of seconds...

His lips tried to twitch up again, but he held himself back. Staring at the male without an expression his eyes blank but his mind working. He could anticipate few if any problems with this particular roommate.  
Clearly, even if his reputation had preceded him, the male could not have been bothered to request a transfer.

Interesting.

And so, quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping male, Gaara gathered up his supplies and put them away, lastly adding his latest project to his portfolio. Over the next week, he would need to look through his work and decide which he would present. He had heard of Sasori, his professor. Art was to be preserved. Eternal.

The lanky teen laid upon his bed, his arms folded behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. Thinking about his work thus far. Which would be appropriate to show a professor and which he could possibly show later and which he could likely never show, to anyone.


End file.
